


Expectations

by glinda4thegood



Category: Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies)
Genre: Afloat in a dinghy, Gen, Rolling Stones - Freeform, Time Travel, sparrows
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-22
Updated: 2011-03-22
Packaged: 2017-10-17 05:14:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/173270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glinda4thegood/pseuds/glinda4thegood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Teague & Jack discuss Elizabeth in a curious setting. Lyrics for Yellow Submarine, No Expectations, and She's A Rainbow are smudged in a temporal field. May expose reader to language, sex, drugs, rock & roll, and one Cockney Sparrow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Expectations

The wind and weather being favorable, the dinghy being unexpectedly seaworthy, the compass apparently pointing in the same direction the dinghy was sailing, the rum not being gone (although the process of being gone was well under way and sadly inevitable), events all combined to produce a singular, although less than remarkable, concatenation that resulted in Jack Sparrow being mildly drunken and awake under the night sky, one hand on the tiller of the small boat, the other between his legs holding his cock, (a thing smaller than the tiller, but in proportion to the rest of his body impressive enough to engender inventive oaths and reverent remarks from the ((actually fewer than commonly believed)) women of easy, but remarkably pricey ((valued both in coin and necessary subsequent emotional divestment)) virtue who’d chanced upon the thing’s naked magnificence either by accident -- urinating outside Tortuga taverns provided a frequent opportunity for observation -- or through deliberate exposure ((not an event that occurred as often as pirate gossip implied, pirate gossip being by its very nature overblown, salacious, and of dubious veracity))).

He wasn’t after solitary pleasure, Jack thought, idly measuring the thickness and length of his cock with his fingers, so much as he wished to reassure himself that he was alive, a man, and his man parts worked as they should. It was also very boring to be alone in a dinghy on the ocean. There was little else to do but drink rum (until gone), piss over the side of the dinghy, and touch the one part of himself that still reacted in a predictable, comforting, and pleasant manner.

The sky and the compass indicated that the dinghy sailed in a roughly northeasterly direction. Jack closed his eyes and held tight to the tiller and his cock.

  
**CURIOUSER AND CURIOUSER or GOODBYE DINGHY**

“Wotcher, me old cock. Looks like a right nice sausage. Might consider giving it a bit of a peck, hif you wassn't holdin’ it so tight.”

Jack opened his eyes. He closed his fingers, protectively, reflexively, around his cock. “Hello?”

“Down 'ere, guv.”

It took a few seconds to find the source of the small, sharp voice. The brown and black bird perched on a length of rope was nearly invisible.

“Not a parrot,” Jack observed. “Birds don’t, in the general way of things, start conversations.”

“Too true. Name’s Cheapside. I’m an English sparrer, an’ prouduvvit.” Cheapside’s black eye seemed abnormally bright and fierce. “She said you wasn’t listening, and to pop over and gif you a bit of hadvice. Let go huf yerself, She said. Didn’t guess She meant literally, but there you 'ave it. Lone fella in a dinghy, wot’s there to do but a bit o’the . . .”

“She?” Jack carefully tucked his cock back inside his breeches. “Taking a’uninformed guess here, but are you speaking of . . .?”

“Ca-lip-so. One of ‘er names, anyways. Not usually given to meddlin’ wif poor evvemeral creatures such as meself, ga’bless’er. ‘Cept when bloody mortals go deaf, dumb and buggerin’ blind.”

“Well, beg pardon.” Jack considered the English sparrow. “And all she wants?”

“Bloody close y’r eyes and bloody go to sleep.” Cheapside fluffed his feathers until he was twice his original size. “Fuckin’ goats, guv. Just. Go. To. Sleep.”

Jack leaned back and considered the tiny bird. He had avoided sleeping as much as he could since returning from the Locker. Dreamtime had been disturbing, even though, upon waking, he couldn’t completely recall what he dreamed. “You’re a long way from home.”

“Hain’t we all.” Cheapside pecked, a reflexive pecking, at the bit of rope. “Born in London, but made me first nest at Shipwreck Cove. ‘eard stories of you. Always pokin’ around the less traveled places huf the Cove, gaffer said. One of Teague’s lads.”

“Mmm. Birds don’t talk at the Cove.” Jack relaxed against the dinghy’s spongy wood. “Got to wonder, now. Are birds talking here?”

“Prob’ly not. Quit ‘allucinatin’ and go to sleep.” Cheapside hunkered down on his perch. “Got any crumbs or seeds, guv?”

Jack untied his sash and shook it out. Bits of fluff and debris filled the air.

“Than’kee. Scrap o’scone, well-aged cheese . . . his that part huv a lentil?” Cheapside rummaged and pecked through the fluff. “Follow y’r current course and you’ll end up alone on some poxy island buggering goats until you die from natural calamity, like slipping off a rock while buggering a goat.” Cheapside shuddered, creating a small downy cloud. “Hif you don’t listen to me, She’ll send something louder, pro’bly more intrusive, to reason wiv you.”

“And most like slimy.” Jack sighed. The sail gave an indecisive flutter as the water around the dinghy flattened into smoothness. “These are not thoughts designed to promote sleep, Mister Cheapside. Have you noticed the sudden lack of wind?”

“Fortuitous coincidence. Sleep well!” Cheapside shook his tail feathers and tilted his cheek against his breast feathers. “Know I will.”

“Bugger.” Jack closed his eyes.

It wasn’t Tortuga, Jack was sure. Instead of a tiller his hand rested on a door frame. He gripped the wood tightly, afraid to let go. He half fancied that a step forward might wake him to a watery situation.

Bamboo-framed lanterns lit a spacious hall. There was a patina of long wear on the rough-planked floor, a heavy, sweet scent in the air, a distinct Oriental quality to the golden women with understated curves and rich silk garments, that told Jack he could be in Singapore once again.

_In the town where I was born_  
_Lived a man, who sailed to sea,_  
_and he told me of his life_  
_On a leaky brigantine . . ._

There was something terribly familiar about that melodic, uneven voice.

Seated on a throne of jewel-toned brocade silk cushions, a man with curling dark hair, eyes as changeable as the sky over Shipwreck City on a winter’s day, a voice simultaneously rough and smooth as cross-grain stroked velvet . . . a man with long, clever fingers caressed a guitarra as if it had breasts.

The minstrel ended the whimsical song. His hands stilled on the strings and sat for a moment, eyes closed, smiling. When he opened his eyes he set the instrument beside him on the cushions.

Jack let go of the door frame and stepped into the room. As such places went, this was obviously a better class of establishment than he usually frequented. Heavy, colorful draperies partially obscured an area of bunks at the far end of the room, an area responsible for much of the smoke that hovered near the ceiling. He found himself meeting the minstrel’s eyes.

“Quiet night. Join me?”

A stooped yellow gentleman with a long braid placed a small table next to the minstrel’s cushions. At a wave of the minstrel’s fingers, he scurried away, then returned with a small boy. The boy carried a tray that held a decanter and two crystal stems. The old man placed a nargile on the table.

“I feel as if I should know you. Have we met?” The minstrel kicked a cushion in Jack’s direction. “From the look of your hands, and other things, you’re a sailing man. I’ve sailed a fair bit, inbetweensies. Where do you hail from?”

Jack considered the minstrel and the question. “From the sea. And I can safely and accurately state that you’ve never seen me before.” Jack sank down onto the cushion. “Am I in Singapore?”

The minstrel’s eyebrows quirked into half-moons of amusement. “Not exactly, but close enough. The name’s Teague.”

“Sparrow.” Jack looked pointedly at the stemware. “You wouldn’t believe how far I’ve come. Drink would be nice.”

Teague smiled. “Drink’s always nice.” His long fingers swirled patterns on the decanter stopper before he removed it and poured garnet-colored wine into the glasses.

“Lovely.” Jack took the offered glass and tipped it up. There was nothing illusory about the sweet aromatic heat that coursed down his throat. “Should have dreams like this more often.”

Teague sipped his own wine. “Dreams, is it? Looking for a night of oblivion?”

Jack grimaced. “Oblivion not being the mistress she’s made out to be by poets and fanciful artist gents, I’ll settle for a modest level of inebriation, possibly brushing up against oblivion’s skirts and unlacing her corset, but not venturing further intimacy.”

Teague made a soft sound like the rumble of distant thunder, laughter pushing his face into the gentle traceries that time would eventually convert to a sunken-relief map of his life. “Spoken like a man who’s sampled oblivion’s charms.” He reached for the pipe. “Smoke with me?”

“Too kind.”

There was a pleasant intermission of relaxing, drifting and existing. No need to consult a compass, select a course, debate with the fates over callous distribution and relocation of treasures both physical and metaphysical. Jack sprawled on his stomach, head propped by elbows and palms. He tried to watch Teague out of the corner of his eye, without staring. Impossible to think his father had ever been this young and companionable.

“I’m guessing y’r inbetweensies right now.”

“In a way.” Teague picked up his instrument and played a short piece of melody. “I have to wait on ship repairs. There’s a chance additional crew will be needed later, if you’re interested.”

“Can’t see that working out.” Jack laughed at the idea. “I hope to be headed up Nassau-way in the morning, then beyond.”

Teague’s fingers stilled. “Interesting.”

“The woman and the ships are gone, but I’ve got the charts and a kind of plan,” Jack confided. “It’s just that I’m not sure what I’ll do, if by chance I find the thing I’m looking for.”

“Sure you haven’t found it already?” Teague poured more wine into the glasses. “When I find myself arguing with myself, I know it’s because I don’t wish to admit the argument has a certain answer.”

“Of course I haven’t found _it_ already.” Jack sat up, with as much indignation as he could muster while downing another glass of wine. “If I’d found -- whatever -- I’d be with . . . doing . . . whatever.”

Teague laughed and tapped the center of his forehead lightly. “You mentioned a woman. Got her stuck up here, like a burr? My sympathies are with you.”

“Oh, I don’t care so much about her.” Jack shook his head violently. “Knowing what y’r memory’s like, doubt it would be in m’best interest to give you particulars.”

“I don’t follow you.” Teague frowned.

“No. I follow you, though.” The thought, the words, were extraordinary funny. Jack collapsed into laughter.

Teague waited patiently. “Tell me what she’s like, this woman you don’t care so much about.”

“Arrogant,” Jack managed to gasp. The laughter left him awash in exhausted calm. “Brave. Incautious. Clever. Wicked fighter f’r her sex and size. Stubborn as a rusted lock.”

“Is she beautiful?”

“I suppose so, for a pale English missy. Not over-endowed with curving bits. Fair of face, but said face mostly scowls or howls at me.” It wasn’t her full face that kept intruding on his mind’s eye. Jack shook his head. “Lovely mouth. Kissed me with her lovely mouth, then shackled me and left to me the mercies of a great sea beast in order to save the lives of others.”

“Another man?”

“Well, yes.” Jack grimaced. “There’s always another man, isn’t there. Just like there’s always another woman.”

“That’s not an encompassing truth.” Teague’s generous lips quirked into an expression half grimace, half smile. “Seems somehow unnatural, but some men, some women, can find a partner and stay true.”

“That observation don’t come from personal experience,” Jack muttered.

“Oh?”

Teague’s tone was neutral, but a quick examination of his narrowed eyes and slightly altered posture told Jack he’d spoken too carelessly.

“No offense meant. Minstrel. Wenches,” Jack waved his hand around in a sweeping gesture. “Made an assumption.”

Teague cocked his head and regarded Jack with a deep, evaluating expression.

“Know that look.” Jack sighed.

“You weren’t wrong.” Teague relaxed. “But we were speaking of your own experience. Only two courses of action open to the man who’s lost something. Find that what’s lost . . .”

“Or find a replacement for that what’s lost.” Jack reached for the pipe. “Done.”

“It’s very strange,” Teague said, staring down at his own hands with half-lidded eyes, “but although I have no reason to dislike you, I’ve the most overwhelming urge to beat the shite out of you.”

Jack grinned beatifically and exhaled a long breath. “Half that statement works as well for me.”

“As a man who hails from the sea, you will know the benefits to be gained from signing articles. Not all captains are good, not all articles fully kept, but the understanding of, and potential for, meaning and structure exists.”

For a few moments, Teague’s eyes were like deep, colorless holes between his eyelids. Then a blink, a shift of the light, and they returned to the unremarkable grey-brown Jack remembered so well.

“What articles can you offer a lass, and still be a man who hails from the sea? You can promise to leave her behind. You can promise there’s a fair chance you’ll not return to her bit of land. You can promise she’ll never understand there is a rival for your affections that the bravest, cleverest, most beautiful woman could not supplant.” A jangling, broken chord played under Teague’s clenched fingers. “What lass in all four quarters of the earth would sign on under such articles?”

Four quarters. The capricious hands of a compass. Jack felt something at the pit of his stomach imitate a waterspout, push up into his throat then sink and suck and reblend his inner ghosts. The smoky room spun around him like a wheel. It locked into place and settled upon the foreshadow of his father. Teague waited for his reply with hooded, brooding eyes.

“Actually know such a woman. B’lieve I’d be the one signing articles, though.” The room whirled again, due no doubt to the combination of wine and pipeweed. Jack yawned and shook his head. “She’d be the one leaving me behind, the first one finding new ports to explore. She’s already shouted orders at the Sea Herself.”

“Did the Sea listen? She’s usually less kind to women than men.” Teague looked past Jack with a sailor’s squint. “I can’t speak to the validity of your choices, but faced with such a woman I’d probably be glad to have charts and a plan to fall back on.”

A brisk rush of fresh air swept the smoke into serpentine undulations that stretched like ghostly lizards, then disappeared into the denser brume hiding the tavern’s ceiling from human sight. Two men and a woman relocated several unresponsive bodies to clear a space near the minstrel’s throne. Even with his sense of smell dulled by Teague’s pipeweed, Jack could detect the presence of pungent spices coming off the trio.

The men were dark, limber and decorated with inked designs. One man was bald, the other had a dark fury of matted hair twined with beads and bits of leather. Both appeared, to Jack’s practiced eye, to have many knives about their persons.

The tall woman, clothed in a kind of divided skirt that ended mid-calf and showed off a pair of really fine brown leather boots, also carried a fair amount of cuttery. Her burnished arms were exposed by a dandy-man’s brocade vest that barely buttoned over her high breasts. Delicate blue inscriptions curled over her shoulder caps.

“Didn’t think she could have been more beautiful.” Jack blinked and tried to ignore the odd sensation that the floor moved under him much like the deck of a boat.

“Oh?” Teague frowned. “Fancy her, do you?”

“What? Bugger! No!” Jack reached for the pipe and drew a lungful of smoke. His fingers trembled slightly. He exhaled slowly, wondering at Calypso’s purpose behind this particular confrontation.

Skin the color of amber and tortoiseshell. Almond-shaped eyes the color of deep river water touched by golden sun’s rays, tilted ever so slightly, delicately lined with kohl. Dark hair burnished with earthy red, close-cropped to the shape of her elegant skull. His mother-yet-to-be stood looking at them with all the haughty command of an Egyptian princess.

“I don’t hear music. I came to listen to your music.”

Her husky, liquid voice raised the hair on the back of Jack’s wrists. “That was an order, mate,” Jack muttered towards Teague.

“Indeed.” Teague held his guitarra loosely. “Where do you hail from, lady?”

Her milk-white smile was swift and knowing. “From the sea, man. Get you to work, now.”

Teague chuckled. He bent toward Jack and spoke in a very quiet voice. “Impatient, demanding, provoking, confidant, extraordinarily beautiful . . . could there be more than one woman who answers that description?”

Jack rolled his eyes. Elizabeth and his mother were nothing alike. “Fancy her, do you?”

“I’m no man’s fancy, boy. Move your raggedy carcass and improve my view.”

“Yes m . . . lady.” He stood and picked up his pillow, watching her hands carefully as he prepared to move away. “Play her one of y’r own songs,” Jack said under his breath. “That always works.”

“Good speaking with you, Mister Sparrow.” Teague bent his head over the guitarra, and all traces of languor disappeared as the fluid tautness of arm muscle, the precise nimbleness of fingers birthed piercingly bittersweet music into the world.

 _Walk me to the harbor_  
Watch me sail through rain  
I’ve got no expectations  
To pass through here again  
Our love is like the water  
That splashes on a stone  
Our love is like my music  
It’s here, and then it’s gone.

  
**BACK TO THE FUTURE**

Jack woke with a start. “Dinghy. Ocean.” He half stood and sniffed the air. “Change of wind.”

After a moment’s hesitation he pulled out the compass. It pointed steady, without quiver or fluctuation.

“Bugger.” Jack assessed the increasingly choppy night water. “Nothing wrong with coming straight out with advice, lady. You used to be free enough with it. I suppose I have to go back and tie up loose ends.”

Cheapside opened one bright eye and winked. “Good choice. She said I could catch a ride wif you back to Tortuga.”

“Did she?” Jack shrugged. He sat back down and took hold of the tiller. “Back to Tortuga it is, Mister Cheapside.”

The steady wind and wet salt spray were nearly as intoxicating as the wine and pipeweed. He had missed the old man’s music. He missed Pintel and Ragetti bickering. He missed finding small ways to torment the monkey. Most of all he missed being scowled and howled at by a captain who probably had a magnificent set of articles.

Oddly, the conceit cheered him immeasurably. Jack began to hum and tap his foot.

_Her face is like a sail, so fair and pale, have you seen a pirate fairer . . ._


End file.
